Pulse to Pulse
by Johanna-002
Summary: A glimpse of what Gloria may be feeling as she reflects on the critical condition her son is in.


**Title:** Pulse to Pule

 **Summary:** A glimpse of what Gloria may be feeling as she reflects on the critical condition her son is in.

 **Disclaimer:** I do not own OITNB or any of its characters. They belong to Jenji Kohen, I do, however, own my writing so please don't steal- Johanna002©

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 _A/N: Hi, all! Long time, no writing. Life has been insane since my last post in early March. First and foremost, I graduated college (yet, I'm still in school) so exciting, right?! I thought so. I am so excited for the upcoming season, you have no idea. By the time it comes out, I will be on a temporary unemployment streak, so perhaps it'll inspire the writing muse. I'm not sure how often I'll be posting since I am still in school, and my schedule will only get more hectic in the upcoming weeks, but I am determined to stay positive._

I held my child within me, before I had ever held him in my arms, and now, I'm being told that I may lose him forever, and that I can't hold him. That I _cannot_ be there. I can't get my mind to wrap around that, around the very real, and very probable likelihood, that I will never see him again.

Did you know that his heart used to beat _inside_ of me?I was the first one to ever hear its beautifully, strong and rhythmic sound. Did you know that when he came out, and they laid him on my chest for the first time, I felt it pulse against me? Now, only a short fifteen years later, they're telling me it may stop, and that I may never get another chance—a last chance—to listen to its unique cadence.

Pain, pure and true, rips through my body fiercely. It's like someone has lit me up with fireworks, as I feel every part of myself combusting. My grief, my mistakes—everything I have ever hated about myself—shoots through my heart, and runs back through my bloodstream, burning through my veins like acid.

In a moment of horror, I realize that like my emotions, I have no place to go. I am stuck in this cell, caged like an animal. My anger seizes me, and I pound my fist unforgivingly against the window of my cell. The CO outside of my door glares at me, and I glare back. He doesn't say anything, and I don't either as I turn away to sit down on my bunk. In an instant, I am curling into myself, shape-shifting into a tight, little ball. My hands, warm and sweaty, find homage under my shirt, and the pads of my fingers and palms instantly begin to dance across my abdomen. The raised and jagged remnants of my stretch marks bring me an odd sense of comfort, a feeling I had never once felt before when looking into a mirror.

Rolling onto my back, my eyes trained toward the ceiling, I familiarize myself with the art my four pregnancies have etched into my skin. There are a few lines here, just under my rib cage, and some here, on either side of my belly button, and about a dozen more scattering the length beneath my navel to top of my waist band. Nothing I have ever done, aside from bringing my children into this world, has been worth the pain I have ever had to endure. I don't understand the choices I have made, let alone the reasons I ever had for making them. I don't know how I got here, or how I could have possibly ever let this happen.

Every time I think about it, my past and my past life, and who I was before Litchfield, I feel sickened. I think about the woman, and the mother that I was, and I can't help but hate her. I hate how naive and scared she was. I hate how tired and angry she was. I hate _everything_ about her. And yet, my hatred for her, for that woman that I _was_ , does not even begin to describe the level of hatred I have toward myself _now_.

For the last ten years, I have tired… _Jesus, God Almighty in Heaven_ , have I tried to make-up and learn and grow from _that_ woman's mistakes, but my efforts have not been acknowledged. I have not been forgiven, and now, I am facing the ultimate punishment life has to offer and there is not a damn thing I can do to escape it. My stomach flips and my eyes fill instantly with tears, as I allow my heart to register what my brains already knows: There is a very real and true possibility that my son may die.

A moment, silent and calm, washes over me, paralyzing me.

Mindlessly, my hands circle over my abdomen. It feels rigid and hard, and a pain, similar to the contractions I experienced all those years ago, races through every nerve ending in my body. I feel like I am on fire, but unlike all those times before, when I wanted nothing more than to accept an epidural and escape the pain, I now want to only embrace it. I want it to drown me, and if I'm lucky, maybe this pain will even kill me.

I hurt in a way only few understand, and though I have not officially crossed that line and become a loss-mom, I can't seem to shake the idea that it will indeed be a title I wear. Like prisoner, or battered woman, I know it's going to be another label that defines me. The only difference between the two titles that come before it, is that this one will succeed in killing me.

My hands span across my belly, and the tips of my fingers descend the waistband of my pants, and into my underwear, stopping just above my pubic bone. Where on most women that line is drawn invisibly, my line is a healed cesarean scar. It marks the grand entrance for how my son chose to enter this world and it perfectly reflects the unforgettable imprint my child has made on me. I wish I had known then, in that delivery room, that his ability to get into trouble—like innocently tangling himself in his umbilical cord—would linger and haunt us.

Despair and heartbreak stir in the pit of my stomach like a bartender's specialty, and it feels as if I've been picked up like a mixer, all my emotions violently shaking and tumbling inside of me, conspiring with one another for the best way to escape. Tears begin to stream down my cheeks and I'm too helpless to wipe them away. What is the point, when only more will flow to take their place? A scream, loud and raw, echoes in the walls of my throat as it rips from my esophagus. It surrounds my cement cage, and though the sounds of my own wails are detrimental to my ears, I can't stop.

I scream, and I curse until I've used up every ounce of oxygen resided in my lungs. Breathless, I struggle to calm myself. The pain retreats temporarily as I manage to catch my breath, but the very second, I do, it's back again. I can hear the voices of the other inmates talking, but my world is such a haze that I can't decipher what is being said, much less who is saying it.

At this point, my levels of mental instability are indistinguishable, all I know is that if he dies, so will I. Because there is no one on earth who has ever survived losing a piece of their heart.


End file.
